2 books on my bedside table, the first - Richard Feynman, - "Surely your joking, Mr. Feynman" - the autobiography of the Nobel Prize winning physicist, an easy read, enjoyable principally because of the fascinating character that Mr. Feynman was.
And the other, the collected letters of Vincent Van Gogh to his brother Theo, (edited) - the "edited" offends me, I want to know what was left out. I'm reading the Feynman book to stall the reading of Van Gogh's letters, already they have me rapt and I am savouring, delaying the sadness that comes with finishing a great read.